Walk Away Now and You're Gonna Start a War
by theUglySpirit
Summary: You glance at the small cross tattooed on your right middle finger and shake your head. You've always regretted it, that and pretty much everything else you did when you were fifteen. Someday, your brother will look back on fifteen and regret it as well. T for language. I wrote it, so go figure. One-shot.


SE Hinton owns The Outsiders and the Shepard Clan.

**Walk Away Now And You're Gonna Start A War**

_You were always weird, but I never had to hold you_

_By the edges like I do now_

_Walk away now and you're gonna start a war. –The National, "Start A War"_

You can feel the tickle as the sweat runs down your back. It's already too hot for playing these games, and the sun ain't even up yet. The breeze coming through your car's windows is almost all dust.

Your mother demanded that you go out and look for him, but at this point you're just driving around, collecting your thoughts. You know where he is. He ain't a dumb kid like people say, but he ain't exactly creative either. He's predictable, sometimes in a good way. This morning it's going to work in your favor. In about fifteen minutes, as soon as the radio is done playing this song and a couple more, you're going to find him in the Calvary Cemetery and drag his ass home.

Not that it will probably do any good. Back at the house, your ma's got all the windows wide open for him to hop right out of again. She's one of that tribe of paranoids and conspiracy theorists who think the pressure drop during a tornado will make the house explode. A second shooter on the grassy knoll, aliens in New Mexico, and tornados that know whether or not your bathroom window is open: that's your ma.

You stretch your fingers and then curl them back around the steering wheel. You glance at the small cross tattooed on your right middle finger and shake your head. You've always regretted it, that and pretty much everything else you did when you were fifteen. Someday, your brother will look back on fifteen and regret it as well. Or maybe not. He's more the type who would look back and laugh.

The announcer breaks in on your song again. He insists that this is the big one; we're all going down this time, no escape. Fucker's as bad as your mom. Doesn't he know that they prepared you and all the school children of America for this? All you have to do is find a desk and curl up under it with your head between your knees. Works for nuclear bombs, too. There is nothing to fear. Everything will be okay as long as we open all the windows and wedge ourselves under our desks.

The iron gates of the cemetery against the backdrop of the darkening sky would make Vincent Price want to do a little dance, you think. You're not a fan of cemeteries. You're not really fan of smoking weed either, and that's all the living kids ever do when they go hang out here. You did get a girl to kiss you here once under the Black Angel. Another fairy tale for the conspiracy nuts: the Black Angel statue used to be white, or silver, or something more metallic in color. She corroded and turned black the first time she got rained on, but the local kids tell one another that if you kiss a virgin under the Black Angel, she'll turn white/silver/metallic again. No virgins to be found in Tulsa, apparently. Definitely not the girl you were making time with.

You can see him now. He's sitting on the ground, but he's wearing a red and blue flannel shirt and it stands out against the surrounding shades of gray. You kill the car's engine and start to walk towards him. He looks up, and you raise your hands in a gesture of peace and goodwill. You ain't going to do anything to him. Hell, what do you care if he runs away? It was your ma who made you come.

"I hope you brought your ruby slippers," you say to him, nodding towards the sky.

"Just leave me alone, Tim," he says, still pouting.

"I would love to, dipshit, but Ma's about ready to have an aneurism. If we're going to be stuck sitting in the basement for the next couple of hours, I'd prefer she be just a little more calm."

He looks up at you. People say he's you in miniature, but you never have seen it. He's grown taller than you, for one thing, which you suppose makes you the miniature one now. His eyes are wider and more childlike in expression, and he can't comb his signature curls out of his hair no matter how much Dixie Peach he uses. If he'd keep his big mouth shut once in a while, he could hook girls like fish with that goofy grin of his.

"You know it wasn't me, don't you, Tim? I didn't take her stupid ring. Maybe Angela sold it or maybe Donnie did. He hates that she keeps it around."

"I know you didn't do it," You tell him, although you don't really know for sure. You really just don't care one way or another, except that it's got your mom riled, and yet she knows that Curly has a better chance of making it out of this alive if you handle it instead of your stepdad. Mad as hell, and she's still trying to protect him. Curly could burn the fucking house down, and your mom would send you out to settle the score with the caveman who invented fire.

He picks at the grass, pulling it up in little clumps and then tossing it into the wind.

"You know, somebody's under there," you say.

"Somebody dead, Tim. Ain't going to bother him any."

"I don't know, man. It'd be pretty cool if some hand popped up out of the ground and grabbed you…" You reach down and clamp your hand around the back of his neck. He's laughing now, too hard to defend himself when you pin him. "…pulled you down with it. Shit, and you know if the dead came back to life and dragged your dumb ass off, Ma would be crying to me- " you switch to the high-pitched imitation of you mother that you have perfected over the years, "'Tim, the undead took your brother to hell. Go get him and bring him back…'"

Curly is clawing at you, still laughing. "Yeah, and you'd do it, too, fucker, because you're such a mama's boy."

"It's called self-preservation, buddy. Who do you think gets his ass handed to him every time something happens to you? Yeah, I'd make that trip. "

He's out of breath. _You may be bigger, but I'm still meaner_, you've told him a million times. He isn't laughing anymore, but he's still smiling. You almost have him now. "You about ready to go home, fucker?" You say. You look up at the sky and add, "If we still have one."

"I ain't worried. When every other house on the block explodes, ours will be the only one left standing, all thanks to Ma."

"Yeah, left standing for the tornado to plow over. That would be our luck." You roll off of him and stand up. You brush the grass off of your jeans and then extend an arm to pull him up, too.

"Can't we just drive around for a little while?"

"And let my car get all pummeled to shit when it hails?"

"Gonna do that sitting on the street in front of the house anyway. Come on, man. Just for a little bit, while I think of something to tell her."

You raise a suspicious eyebrow at him. "Spoken like a guilty man, Curly."

"I didn't take it, but it was my idea," He says, following you towards the car. "You ain't the only overprotective one in the family. Angel was meeting that slutty little friend of hers…what's her name…the one with the tits…"

"That narrows it down."

"You know who I mean, man. She's stacked like fucking Lincoln logs…"

"Lincoln logs? How long has it been since you played with Lincoln logs?"

"A long time," he says, and then ducks away proactively, "About as long as it's been since you played with a pair of tits."

You take a swing at him, but miss on purpose because it was a pretty good come-back. "I think I know who you mean. Blond chick? Yeah, she's got a nice pair. Tell the story."

"Yeah, her. Anyway, they wanted to go downtown and see some band play by the bridge."

You narrow your eyes. You had been very specific to Angela about how she was not to go down there. If God himself appeared to her and told her to build an ark, she was just going to have to build it on high ground because she wasn't to be anywhere near that park by the river.

Curly, for once, is way ahead of you. "I know you told her not to, man, but she was going to do it anyway. Fuck, you know Angel. So, I told her to wear a ring. I saw it in some movie somewhere. This girl was traveling by herself, and she wore a fake wedding ring to keep guys from bugging her."

"What guys would that work on, Curly? Any of the ones we know? Would it work with you?"

"I don't know." The two of you have reached the car now. You notice, to your annoyance, that you have left all the windows down. "It seemed like a good idea at the time," he said. "She's always liked that ring. She probably did it just as an excuse to wear it."

"She probably did, and then she lost it."

"Yeah, she lost it. And she didn't even give a shit. She just said that it was about time Ma let go of it 'cause it's not like Dad's coming back."

You have to agree with your sister on that one, in theory. In reality, however, obviously your ma is not ready to let go, and she's going to make your life hell until that ring reappears. "So your plan then was what?" You ask him.

"I was hoping she'd think it was Donnie because it always pissed him off that she kept it. He's tried to get her to pawn it a bunch of times."

To Curly's credit, this is not an entirely half-cocked scenario. The fights over your Ma's wedding ring and her not pawning it off are pretty epic. There have been times when you were convinced that the house might explode from the inside from the force of the heated words flying around.

"Fuck," you say and the two of you get in the car. You turn the key in the ignition and listen for a minute to the weather guy carry on about the imminent death that awaits you all. "How much do you think a ring like that is worth?"

Curly shrugs. "I don't know. She always said she and Dad were broke when they got married. I don't think they had much time to put into planning a wedding or anything." He's grinning, and he winks at you.

"Yeah, yeah, it's my fault they ended up married in the first place. Therefore, somehow, all of this is my fault, and now it's my responsibility to make it all right, right?"

"I'll go with that. I mean, don't be so hard on yourself, Tim. You are her favorite, after all."

"You're pushing it," you tell him. "How much cash do you have on you?"

"About three bucks."

"Splendid." You probably only have about five yourself, however, you also have a stolen .45 in the glove box if the clerk ain't in the mood to haggle.

"What are you thinking, Tim?"

"I'm thinking we're going to head down by the river and comb every fucking pawn shop within a mile looking for that ring. Some junkie probably picked it up and fenced it. We'll find it and buy it back."

Curly shrugs. "Ain't it supposed to be safer next to a body of water in a storm anyway?"

"Sounds like complete bullshit to me, Einstein. All's I know is we're both going to be safer if you come home with that ring in hand."

The clouds churning above you split open and the beam of sunlight that bursts through is so bright against the hood of the car that you have to step on the brakes. Curly laughs as he reaches out to brace himself against the dash. "Check it out," he says. "The Lord smiles down on the Shepard boys."

"Yeah, that's what's happening," You roll your eyes.

"Come on, man. Ain't this right up your alley? Signs and divine intervention and shit?"

"Sometimes the clouds are just clouds, kiddo," you tell him. _It's ain't like that_, you think and turn it over and over in your head searching for a way to make Curly understand. _There's no bright light, no flash of understanding. Are you any wiser this instant than you were before the sun broke through the clouds? No, you're the same dipshit kid who lost his ma's wedding ring, and I'm the same chump mama's boy who's going to help you get it back. That gun in the glove box is the best kind of divine intervention you and me can hope for._

Up ahead, the rain is starting to pelt the street that leads downtown. The radio signal is getting lost in the cosmic upheaval that surrounds you. As he fades away into static, the deejay implores you to get inside, underground, preferably in the southeast corner of something strong. You can feel your brother's worried eyes on you, but you keep driving towards the center of the storm.


End file.
